Angel Fire
by Musiclove95
Summary: Set in the 1600's in Europe. Valentine and Stephen arrange a union between their son and daughter to settle a feud between their kingdoms. What if Clarissa and Jace have other plans?
1. Prologue: Fire

**This is my new story I decided to try writing. I've never written anything in this time period, so bear with me as I get the hang of it. This is the incredibly short but important prologue, which creates the backdrop for chapter 1. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Cassandra Clare**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE (August 1, 2012): So, I hit a huge writer's block with this story. I reread all that I had written and decided that I needed to go back and redefine the story lines again. So this is the new, longer, better prologue. Re-read and re-review for me?**

Prologue: Fire

_France, 1655_

The earth was silent, waiting. Short grunts from horses were the only sound to be heard. The faint breathing of men. The click of a sword against metal armour. A call was sounded and bangs ensued. Fire rained from the sky. It split open the clouds and covered the sun. The whole earth was ablaze. The shouts of men and the clatter of horse hooves bounced across the empty plains. The men and ground lit fire.

Men ran screaming, hurrying for cover under whatever they could find. King Valentine Morgenstern of France was never one to cower at the face of his enemies. He stood tall—valiant—even when death seemed imminent. He sat upon his great black stallion, Vaillant, waiting for this enemy to show its face. He knew who was behind this attack.

"Great King Valentine of France, how do you like seeing your men burn to dust around you?" A voice sneered. Valentine surveyed the surrounding area for his foe. Across the plains stood King Stephen Herondale of England, his helmet in his hand. Another round of fire was sent, killing more of Valentine's men.

"Well played, Herondale. Why attack your enemies when taking out your allies is just as acceptable," Valentine replied, digging his heels into Vaillant, making the large horse trot forward. Flames fell all around the King, none touching him or the horse.

"You forget, Morgenstern, that you ordered the exile of my wife's brother, Lucian. She never forgave you for that. Her maidservant thinks that was the cause of her suicide. I intend to avenge her death." Stephen fixed Valentine with a stony look.

"Amatis passed away years ago, Herondale. I've heard you even have a new wife now, Céline, and a son on the way." Valentine spoke with disgust. Since the reign of King Henry the Eighth ended, men in England had been permitted to seek new wives if they were not happy with theirs. Valentine thought it was barbarianism, having the King as the head of the Church instead of the Papacy.

Stephen called out an order to his men. "Cease fire." Turning to Valentine, he said, "What do you care if I have a son. Now your Jonathan will have some healthy competition. How's Jocelyn doing? Do you think I've frightened her enough? Does she fear for your life? Or, maybe, she—like me—is tired of your deeds. Have you banished anyone else of late?"

Valentine glowered at the other man's self-assurance. "Jonathan is fine. He's going to be a great warrior, I can tell. And as for Jocelyn, we too are trying for another child. She wishes for a girl."

Valentine's men looked around in confusion. Why had the fire ceased? Was the battle over and their homeland safe?

"Men!" Valentine called out, glaring at Stephen, "This battle is done. Return to your positions guarding the castle." Stephen ordered his men likewise. The plain was black with debris and bodies littered the ground. "Send for the coroners. I want these bodies identified and buried."Valentine added. The French were a valiant people, honouring all their brave men who died protecting the land.

"Your men held their own well today, Morgenstern. Better than our other foes. I would like to strike a new proposition with you," Stephen said, watching as his men remounted their horses.

"And pray tell what would this great proposition be?" The words felt like grit on Valentine's tongue. He resisted the urge to spit on the ground near Stephen's feet.

"I would like to propose a union of our countries. Through marriage," Stephen said without a hint of dishonesty in his voice.

Valentine let out a sharp laugh. "My son is . . . my son is _not_ going to marry your son."

"Not your son. The daughter you and Jocelyn are trying for. If you succeed, I propose a union of my son and your daughter," Stephen reiterated. Valentine thought over the offer.

"What's in this for you, Stephen? Do you want control of France?" The thought of Stephen ruling the kingdom of France made Valentine shudder.

"No, it gives us allies. Your army is powerful, mine is powerful. This proposition is advantageous to both of us. Promise me you will send word when your daughter comes of age? If not, I shall know and strike out at your kingdom once more, and this time, I won't call a ceasefire," Stephen said, mounting his white horse and turning away from Valentine.

Valentine stroked Vaillant's head. "I hate that bastard too," he whispered to the horse, "I only hope his son takes after Céline."

_Near the border of France and England, 1655_

Stephen ordered his men to set up camp. He had an ulterior motive for attacking Valentine Morgenstern of France's castle. The two were friends as children, great friends even. Their mothers, Seraphina Morgenstern and Imogen Herondale, were best friends, both growing up as the daughters of prominent lords in the north. They raised the two boys, Valentine and Stephen, together. Even Stephan and Valentine's fathers, the two late kings, were on good terms and governed their kingdoms with a united iron fist. Stephen and Valentine grew apart when Stephen's father was killed in battle, leaving Stephen, only seventeen at the time, to govern a kingdom on his own. Valentine's father tried to govern both lands, discarding all of Stephen's ideas. The matter was made worse when Stephen overheard Valentine pitching ideas to the King of France on how to knock Stephen off the throne and have Morgenstern's governing both England and France.

Stephen had recently discovered something, something powerful and potent, and something beyond his feud with the new King of France. This something could unite the kingdoms, renewing the bond the late kings of England and France had brought to the land: A united, prospering, and strong set of kingdoms. Stephen's scribes had uncovered an ancient debacle, uniting Valentine and Stephen whether they liked it or not.

Stephen lifted a feather quill, inkwell and piece of parchment from his leather saddle bag. He dipped the quill into the inkwell and placed it on the paper. _My Dearest Céline._

* * *

><p><em>Somewhere in the Country now known as France, somewhere between 1 BC and 100 AD<em>

She was running. Across the field, through the heather, past the great stony walls. Her father was at it again, trying to arrange a marriage for her. Since she had passed the mark of her sixteenth year, two years earlier, her father had been trying to find her a proper partner. A husband. He claimed to have done it this time, found a man who was appropriate for his daughter. The man's name was Jonathan. Jonathan Shadowhunter. She did not like the sound of his name. She thought it screamed of evil. _Shadow_hunter. Shadows.

The clip-clop of horse hooves made her pump her arms harder, willing herself to run faster. The accursed length of her dreadful white dress caught on every loose rock, stick and plant, ripping and tearing as she ran her hardest. "Cousin!" a soft voice cried out. This made her run even faster. She had no desire to stop and be persuaded to return to her father by her cousin, Elaine. Passing more heather, thankful that her cousin was perhaps the most horrible horse rider, she curled into a ball and allowed herself to fall and roll down the soft hill she had come to the crest of. _Just a bit further_, she urged herself. In the past weeks, she had found a place of refuge, a sanctuary. Her sanctuary's blue form arose as she tumbled down the hillside.

With a splash, she crashed into her sanctuary, swimming as deep and far as she could. Through water-filled ears she could hear her cousin, Elaine, calling, "Cousin! _Adele_!" She swam deeper until she could see nothing but spots and feel nothing but cold, cold, _cold_.

And then, warmth, warmth, _warmth_. Light, instead of darkness, began to pierce her eyelids. She could not distinguish how long she had been cold for. It seemed like an eternity and a second at the same time. Had warmth become a foreign concept already? She felt the weightless feeling of being underwater become replaced with the floating feeling of being in the air. And then, the natural, soothing feeling of sitting on soft shoots of green grass. A calming voice saying, "_Rest, my child. For you have come a long way and shall have a long journey back._"

She opened her eyes, seeing blinding white light. A man was beside her, standing on the bank of the lake. "Who are you?"

The man, upon further inspection, was not a man, she realized. He had a stunning face—the most inhumanly beautiful face she had ever seen. And his body! He was tall—taller than even the tallest man she knew on the tallest of her father's horses. His skin was pure white—like the frost that sometimes gathered on the side of her home. Sunlight seemed to pour out of him, washing over her cold but warm body. The sunlight poured out of golden curlicue marks on his skin. The curlicues seemed to dance across his skin. And from his back sprouted two great golden feathered wings with each perfect golden feather inset with an unblinking golden eye.

_I am the angel Raziel. I have been summoned._

His voice was the perfect song: a shout for joy, a cry for help, and both harmonious and melodic at once. "I did not summon you, great Angel," she said, speaking for the first time since she ran away that morning. Her voice did not come out like it should—it was raspy and speaking itself made her raw throat burn. Shadows began to dance at the corners of her vision. They looked like her dear departed mother, but alas, that could not be possible. Her Shadow Mother beckoned to her with her shadow eyes. A whimper escaped from the tormented girl's lips as she closed her eyes, not wanting to look at her late mother any longer.

"I summoned you, Lord Raziel," a man's voice said, coming from a distance away. The angel heard the voice, too, and he turned his great head.

_Come closer, young one._

A rustle of grasses was the only sign she could sense of the man coming forward. She tore her eyes open, focusing on the angel in front of her. She could no longer see her departed mother, but instead the marks from the angel's skin danced in her vision. _Promise_, the whispered. _Love. Faith. Joy. Speed. Knowledge. Courage. _ Pure angelic power danced in front of her. A hand, not the angel's, rested on her bare shoulder where her dress, saturated with water, had slipped off her shoulder. "Can you help her?" The man's voice was right in her ear.

_She is dying. I am not an angel of death and I owe nothing to you, Jonathan Shadowhunter. What do I owe her for that would allow you to order heaven? _

She felt sick. _Dying?_ She could not be. She only swallowed a few mouthfuls of water, had she not? She opened her eyes again only to see a child, disfigured, with skin burnt off and only one eye. Bile rose up into her throat. "You are heaven! Can you not save the life of one innocent? I shall do anything for you!" Jonathan Shadowhunter, the man, cried. _Jonathan Shadowhunter_. The name tugged at something in her memory. Ah, yes. The man she was to marry; the man who got her in this mess in the first place by accepting her father's plan of marrying her off to him.

_Heaven does not make deals with your kind. _

"I will _not_ let her die, Angel. I will turn heaven and earth over searching for a way to save her life. I would give you anything you asked for if you would only heal her." Jonathan Shadowhunter pleaded.

_There is something. A specific deal. You and the girl were meant to have a future. To have your children's children become kings. To let her die would disrupt this future. In the future, your children will separate, choosing different ends of the earth. You must promise me that there will be a union of this separation. If this union does not occur, I will return and take the life that belongs to me._

She opened her eyes as the angel Raziel's perfect hand reached towards her. It touched her shoulder, feeling cool and warm at the same time. She felt like the angel was breathing new life into her. Unafraid of what she would see in front of her, she opened her eyes and kept them open this time. Jonathan Shadowhunter, the man who saved her, who she was promised to her, sat on the grass beside her.

_This lake is cursed to all of your descendants. No good shall come of being here._

The angel disappeared in a flash of blinding white light. She sat up, looking at Jonathan's beautiful kind face. His blond hair, his open gold eyes, his worn hands that had found their way to hers and wrapped around them. Feeling brave, braver than she had ever felt before, she did something forbidden. She brought her face closer to that of Jonathan, so close that she could no longer see both of his eyes. They blended into one perfect, caring eye. She leaned closer still until their lips met. It was a simple brush, so forbidden it was delicious. They were bound in a way that surpassed the union of marriage for it was placed upon them by the hand of heaven itself, in the flesh. Something that she promised she would never forget.

**Review and let me know what you think! **

**xoxo,**

**FireandIce95**


	2. Chapter 1: The Meadow

**Here is the actual first chapter of the story. Thank you to everyone who is reading this. I hope everyone seems in character, but I did have to tweak some of their personalities to fit the story and time period. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Cassandra Clare**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE (August 1, 2012): So, I hit a huge writer's block with this story. I reread all that I had written and decided that I needed to go back and redefine the story lines again. So this is the new, longer, better prologue. Re-read and re-review for me?**

1. The Meadow

_France 1673_

It was dawn when Clarissa woke. The sun was just peeking out from over the horizon, tingeing the sky a shade of pink. _Rose_, Clarissa decided, wondering if she would be allowed to venture to the meadow to paint. _Not today_, she scolded herself. Today she was to meet Prince Jonathan Christopher of England, her betrothed.

"_Mademoiselle_?" A quiet voice inquired from outside the door. The door opened a crack and Clarissa hurried to throw on her dressing gown.

"_Oui_, Jaida, come in," Clarissa said, practicing her English. The foreign words felt strange on her lips. The door opened slowly, revealing Clarissa's handmaid.

Jaida was a tall girl with dark curly hair that fell to her shoulders and dark skin. "You are up early," Jaida replied in English, catching on to Clarissa's excercise.

Clarissa smiled with delight. "Yes, I could not sleep. Has papa told you when we are expecting the prince?" Clarissa sat on the edge of her bed, her feet tucked under her legs to preserve warmth. It was June, early summer, and the mornings were still cool.

Jaida began searching through Clarissa's closet. "He did not say, Miss. I presume he will arrive before midday." Jaida pulled out a beautiful emerald green dress. "This dress, Miss, is _parfaite_ for the occasion."

Clarissa clapped her hands in approval. "_Je l'adore_," she breathed. "Is it new?" The sun sparkled across the fabric, catching the light of the emeralds along the neckline.

"It is the perfect dress for this occasion. It is beautiful and regal, just like you, Milady." Jaida commented. "Come, I will help you into it."

As Jaida shut the door and the curtains, Clarissa shed her nightgown and bed robe. Jaida revealed a corset from Clarissa's closet and helped the smaller girl into it, lacing it up until Clarissa could barely breathe. How she _hated_ corsets. Once that torture was finished, Clary stepped into the dress, which required more lacing up from Jaida. When the dark haired girl was finished, she looked Clarissa over with a smile. "You look _très belle_, _Mademoiselle_."

Clarissa made her way over to her vanity, scrutinizing herself in the mirror. Flowing curly red hair that reached her mid-back. Mysterious emerald green eyes. Porcelain skinned that shone with the radiance of the moon. A modestly low-cut emerald green dress made of light material, with little emeralds encrusting the neckline. It emphasized her tiny waist and set off the colour of her eyes. _I do look beautiful_, Clarissa thought, smiling to herself.

She slipped her feet into _petite_ green flats that hid beneath the skirt of her dress. A trumpet blared out outside and Jaida rushed to the window. "He is here, Milady."

Clarissa's heart began to beat frantically. She pinched her cheeks to add colour to them and took a deep breath through her nose, which was made even more difficult by the cursed corset. "Escort me to the throne room, Jaida?"

Her maidservant nodded and hooked her arm through Clarissa's. They made their way down the hall and winding staircase to the largest room in the castle, the throne room. King Valentine and Lady Jocelyn sat on their thrones, with Clarissa's brother Prince Jonathan standing nearby. His eyes widened as his little sister entered the throne room looking like a true Morgenstern.

Jocelyn rose to greet her only daughter. "Clarissa, _ma fille, tu es superbe_."Jocelyn encompassed her daughter in a hug. Clarissa peeled away from her mother, laughing.

"_Mama, vous __ê__tes trop bon_." Clarissa waved off the compliment. Jocelyn smiled at her daughter and walked back to her throne.

"_Pr__ê__t __à__ vous rencontrer Beau_, Clarissa?" Jonathan asked with a snicker. Clarissa shot her brother a withering look.

She looked to her father for confirmation. "_Je suis pr__ê__t __à__ repondre le prince _Jonathan Christopher." King Valentine nodded at his daughter.

Simon, Jonathan's servant, walked into the throne room. "Prince Jonathan Christopher is waiting, Your Highness," he said in English, bowing.

"Tell him to come in," King Valentine replied in kind. Simon nodded and bowed again, this time in Clarissa and Lady Jocelyn's direction. He saw Clarissa and his eyes began to widen, taking in her dress. Clarissa felt herself blushing furiously and fanned herself.

The great wooden doors to the room opened, revealing a tall blonde boy with golden eyes and a smirk on his face. Clarissa's heart stopped beating. This was him; this was the boy she was going to marry.

"Greetings from my father, Valentine Morgenstern," the boy said, his voice coloured by a strange accent Clarissa had never heard pronounced some of his words strangely, drawing out the 'ah' in father to be an 'ahhhhh' and cutting off the 'r'.

"Yes, greetings to your father as well. You are Jonathan Christopher, I presume?" Valentine asked, speaking Jonathan Christopher's native tongue.

"Yes sir," the boy said, bowing to show his respect. He had a defiant glint in his eye that made Clarissa think he was mocking Valentine's power. "And I prefer to be called Jace. My full name is a mouthful, and I do not wish to be confused with _your_ son." He said this as if being confused with Jonathan was a bad thing.

One of the knights at the back of the room strutted forward, as if to strike at Prince Jace for his insolence. "_Arr__ê__te_," Valentine ordered the knight. "What is wrong with being confused with my son, Jace Herondale of England?" Valentine asked, addressing Jace.

Jace shook his blonde head. "Nothing, sir. I just thought it would be easier for you to call me by a name that is my own and not shared with another." Jace amended.

Clarissa smiled to herself. The boy had guts, and she hated to admit it, but he was quite fetching. Blonde hair that curled at the nape of his neck, eyes like gold, and a lithely muscled figure. Even his loose-fitting tunic shirt could not hide the fact that the boy was muscular.

Valentine seemed satisfied with the answer. "In accordance to the deal your father and I struck seventeen years ago, I will now introduce you to my daughter Clarissa." Valentine motioned for Clarissa to step forward. She complied, curtsying to the foreign prince.

Jace's eyes roamed up Clarissa's body. She was pretty, for a French girl. "_Enchant__é_," he said, offering her his hand.

Clarissa glared at him. She did not need to be coddled or treated like someone she was not. She was not the Valentine's little princess. "Same to you, Prince," she replied, trying hard to keep scorn out of her voice.

"She is beautiful, is she not?" Valentine asked Jace. It was one of those 'answer wrong and you are dead' questions.

"Yes, sir, indeed she is. Much finer than the girls we have England. They are all dogs compared to the beauty of your daughter." Jace replied. Clarissa could tell he was being sarcastic, but Valentine seemed pleased by the answer.

"If I may, sir, I brought two friends from England with me. They are waiting outside," Jace said.

Valentine nodded. "I expected this. Yes, your friends may introduce themselves." The doors opened, revealing a dark haired boy and girl.

The dark haired boy was dressed in similar garb to Jace's. The girl, on the other hand, was beautiful. Inky hair spilled down her back and her dark eyes glinted dangerously. Clarissa felt jealousy bubble up in her stomach. Why would Prince Jace bring another woman with him when the whole point of his trip was to meet her? "King Valentine Morgenstern of France may I introduce to you Sir Alec Lightwood of England and his sister Lady Isabelle Lightwood of England."

Isabelle curtsied and Alec bowed. They could be twins, if not for the look in Alec's eye that made him look older, wiser. Jonathan snapped twice and Simon hurried forward, his glasses sliding off his face. Valentine smiled appraisingly at his son. "Thank you Jonathan. Simon, you are to attend to Prince Jace, Sir Alec, and Lady Isabelle for the duration of their stay. House them in the guest wing. Lunch will be served in the main hall at noon. You are all dismissed."

Clarissa walked out of the room, Jaida in tow. When they were out of earshot, Clarissa let out a sigh, blowing a piece of stray hair. "What did you think of Prince Jace? He is quite handsome," Jaida swooned, gripping Clarissa's hand.

"Yes, he is indeed. But appearances are not everything, Jaida. He seemed like he was hiding something. And he kept slighting my father. I think the boy has an ulterior motive, and I swear on the crown I am going to find out what it is," Clarissa promised.

* * *

><p>Isabelle Lightwood sauntered into Jace's room, flinging herself down on his bed. "Isabelle, get out," Jace said without looking at her.<p>

"Spoil," Isabelle pouted. She didn't understand what went through Jace's head sometimes.

"You can't be in here," Jace said, more forcefully this time. "Clarissa needs to trust me if this 'relationship' Father wants us to have is ever going to work, and I will _not_ gain her trust by having you lounge on my bed."

Isabelle sat up. "Fine, I didn't want to 'lounge' on your bed, anyhow. Speaking of Miss-a Clarissa, she's quite pretty, wouldn't you agree?" Isabelle smiled as Jace rolled his eyes.

"She is fine. I have seen better and I have seen worse. Her hair is blinding, and not in a radiant way," Jace replied, sounding insincerely sincere. Isabelle found herself snickering at Jace's words.

"_She is fine. I have seen better and I have seen worse_," Isabelle mocked him, lowering her voice to sound like his. "'Seen better' my ass, Jace Herondale," Isabelle said in a very unladylike manner.

Jace looked down at the paper on his desk. He was writing a letter to his father, telling of his whereabouts and progress. "I did not know you had a donkey, Isabelle. Is he or she more 'fetching' than Clarissa?"

Isabelle tugged off her heavy boots. They were men's boots originally, but she stole them one day when no one was looking. Presently they were caked with mud and stunk of horse shit. "Shut up. Just because your daddy is king, it doesn't mean that I don't have the right to kick your . . . _backside_, Lady Jace." Isabelle smiled as a chunk of mud stuck to Jace's bedspread. She knew Jace had to have some ulterior motive to coming here so willingly, and she was going to do whatever she could to find out.

Jace did not answer; he continued writing his letter, occasionally dipping his quill into the ink bottle. "Can I borrow a pair of trousers?" Isabelle asked, having an idea.

Jace looked at her incredulously. "_No_. Why ever would you want a pair of my _trousers_, Isabelle?" Jace asked. He crumpled his paper up in his hand, smearing the ink. Isabelle wondered why he bothered writing the letter if it made him so pissy.

"I want to visit the servant's quarters. Come on, Jace, you let me borrow a pair before back at home. I didn't get into any trouble there! Here no one even knows me so it will be easier to get away with," Isabelle pleaded. She had an impulsive need to explore the castle without arousing unwanted attention.

"Yes, but Isabelle, you were ten. Your hair wasn't as long and you did not have anything at your chest area to hide," he replied, referring to Isabelle's long hair and assets.

Isabelle crossed her arms over her chest. "God help me, Jace Herondale has discovered that men and women have different body parts. Now no one is safe. I am not naive, Jace. I know that. I also know that you own a few loose fitting tunic shirts that would do a lovely job of hiding my, as you so eloquently put it, 'chest area'." Isabelle snickered.

Jace threw a sock off his floor at Isabelle, hitting her square in the face. "Shut up Isabelle. The answer is no, I am not going to let you get me in trouble here for helping you with your ridiculous antics. Now get out before someone sees you in here. I can hardly expect Clarissa to trust me if I look adulterous. Now out you go." Jace closed the matter, pointing Isabelle towards the door.

"By the Angel Jace, since when have you started caring about fidelity?" Jace shot Isabelle a murderous look. "I'm going, I'm going. Don't get your panties in a twist. I think I will take a walk through the castle and perhaps get Simon to show me around. If I see any little hideouts for your acts of infidelity, I shall let you know, Your Royal Ass-ness," Isabelle said with a faux bow, giving Jace a mocking smile as she left. She could hear him sigh as she shut the door.

Isabelle fiddled with the bodice of her dress. How she hated the stiff boning that kept it moulded to her body. And the inside of the dress itched like _hell_ no matter how she got it to sit. As she was fiddling, a dark haired boy rounded the corner. She half expected it to be Raphael, her once-upon-a-time lover and a knight in Jace's father's kingdom. It wasn't. As he got closer, Isabelle noted that this boy was more delicate-looking, with big dark puppy dog eyes and long girl-ish lashes behind his glasses. He had a straight nose that reminded her of the faces of Roman emperors King Stephen kept in his throne room to remind him of 'those great warriors who came before'. Right. Like Jace's father was actually Caesar reincarnate.

"_Bonj__—_Hello, I mean, Lady Isabelle," the boy said, bowing to Isabelle like she was a royal dignitary.

Isabelle put on her most charming smile. "Hello, you _must_ be Simon. I've been hoping I would find you." Isabelle's words surprised the boy, as if he couldn't believe someone like _her_ had been looking for someone like _him_. "I would truly appreciate a tour of the castle, and a little bird told me you were the one to ask about that."

Simon looked at Isabelle's chest and his cheek's flushed red. Isabelle looked down to see that all of her fiddling had caused the bodice to shift off-centre, revealing more skin than seemed normal here in France. She fixed it with a quick flick of her wrist, pulling the stiff bodice back into its original position. "All better?" she asked the boy, watching his cheeks go even redder.

"_Oui_, I mean, yes, Lady Isabelle. _Je suis d__é__sol__é_, I mean, I am sorry, we do not get much practice on our English here." Simon replied, his cheeks still red.

"That's fine, Simon. I learned how to speak French when I was just a baby, so I'm fairly fluent. I also speak Spanish although I only know one phrase and I'm fairly sure you don't want to hear it." Isabelle said, her eyes glinting deviously. She learned the phrase while she and Raphael were together one day.

Simon nodded, his cheeks flushing again. "Would you like your tour now, Lady Isabelle? I am sure that we can see if Lady Clarissa would like to accompany us?" Simon asked. Isabelle thought this over.

"I'd _love_ for Lady Clarissa to join us," Isabelle replied. She held her hand out for Simon to hold. He looked nervous and took her gloveless hand into his sweaty one. Isabelle thought it was sweet, his embarrassment from being caught staring at her chest.

The halls of this castle were quite similar to the one her family used to live in when she was naught but a tiny baby. She had visited it twice since she and her brother had moved into King Stephen's castle, once because her parents wished for her baby brother, who was a stillborn, to be buried there, and the second time when she was twelve because she was mad and felt the need to visit her baby brother. The castle, both times, was in ruins, being destroyed by rebels who disagreed with the rule of Isabelle's parents. Her parents were the Duke and Duchess of York, being gifted the land by King Stephen. Isabelle had always been good at imagining and the French castle was as close to what she imagined her family's castle to be like as possible.

The castle was made of stone, contrary to the folk tales she heard of the French being barbarians who built their castle out of the bones of their enemies. Fine tapestries were hung along the stone walls alongside torches held in intricate torch holders. Windows showed peeks of the French countryside, a meadow speckled with flowers of every colour and grass as green as the dress Lady Clarissa wore in the throne room earlier that day.

Simon stopped walking when they reached a wooden door with a golden star door knocker on it. Isabelle knew enough about ancestry to understand the choice of decoration. _Morgenstern_, the Morning Star. Hence the star door knocker and the stars that adorned most of the corridor's decorations.

A tall girl, almost as tall as Isabelle, with dark skin and hair answered the door. "_Bonjour?_" she said in a way that was more of a question than a greeting.

"_Bonjour __à__ vous aussi_, Jaida. _Je donne Lady Isabelle une visite du ch__â__teau es nous nous demandions si Lady Clarissa seraient int__é__ress__é__s __à se joindre nous?"_ Simon asked in French. Isabelle was able to catch the gist of the sentence. Simon was asking Jaida if Clarissa would like to join them on their little tour of the castle.

"_Oui, un moment._" The door shut and Isabelle could hear words being exchanged in French. The girl's dark head popped out of the door again. "Lady Isabelle, we beg your pardon for our forgetfulness. We do not receive much practice in the English language and we often slip into our native tongue. I can assure you this will not happen again." Despite what the girl said about not having much practice with her English, she spoke quite fluently, except for a few mispronunciations here and there.

The door opened fully and Clarissa walked out, wearing what Isabelle had to admit was a gorgeous violet-coloured dress, with silver embroidery. "Hello, Lady Isabelle, it is a pleasure to meet you," Clarissa said formally. The girl was verypetite, no more than five foot one or five foot two. Isabelle was shocked; the girl had a huge presence for one so small in stature.

"It's a pleasure for me to meet you, too, Lady Clarissa," Isabelle replied in kind, the title 'Lady' seeming too formal to address the girl in front of her. _Christ, this girl is sixteen, the same age as me_, Isabelle thought, _and she's already set up to marry someone. And a spoil like Jace, no less_. Isabelle and Jace fought like cats and dogs, making it seem like their life work was to annoy one another.

"Simon is taking you for a tour of the castle?" she asked.

Isabelle nodded. "Yes, I want to see your castle. It looks far less drab than the one I come from in England. I think we have two statues in the entire grounds, one of which is a lion without a tail."

This elicited a small giggle from Clarissa. "Thank you. And please, call me Clarissa, my father may enjoy formalities, but I certainly do not."

Isabelle decided that she liked this girl. "Thanks, Clarissa. And you can call me Isabelle, everyone does. Alec and Jace also sometimes call me Izzy and Iz, both of which I don't mind." Clarissa smiled at Isabelle, showing her teeth.

Simon coughed and the two girls began laughing again. Despite Jace's irrational dislike of Clarissa, Isabelle thought the girl was sweet. "Where do you wish me to start, Miss?"

Clarissa glared at Simon. "I've told you time and time again to call me Clarissa, Simon. I don't mind being addressed by my real name."

Simon nodded and bowed, which made Clarissa groan. "Shall I start with the meadow . . . Clarissa?" Simon asked, his voice unsure as he used the redhead's name.

Clarissa nodded. "The meadow outside the castle? I saw it through one of the windows, it's beautiful," Isabelle gushed.

Simon began walking down the hall with Clarissa and Isabelle walking a few paces behind. They passed several paintings of angels on their way out, some brandishing swords and others with broken wings. _What strange artwork to hang in a castle_, Isabelle thought, remembering the lesson her tutor gave her on the Great War in Heaven. They wandered down a spiralling stone staircase; the walls there were hung with the flag of France and the French crest.

Simon was leading them towards what Isabelle suspected was the castle's backdoor. There were no statues or emblems there, just an opening and a small stone path leading to the meadow. "This is my favourite place in the whole castle," Clarissa said quietly, "because I think it is the most real and humble."

Isabelle thought over what Clarissa had said. Isabelle loved the décor of the castle, but she had to agree with Clarissa. She could picture herself sitting out here was a lover, gazing at the moon at night or escaping the sweltering sun during the day. Isabelle had to laugh at herself; she was the epitome of a hopeless romantic. "Yes, this would be a lovely spot to sit with a lover," Isabelle answered.

Clarissa eyes widened. Isabelle wondered why talking about lovers and courting here seemed so risqué. "Sorry," Clarissa said, composing herself. "I never thought of that as a reason. The meadow is my favourite place to come and paint."

"Are any of the paintings in the castle yours?" Isabelle asked Clarissa as they neared the end of the path. Simon and Clarissa shook their heads at the same time.

Isabelle was glad she wore her boots instead of what her mother called 'Ladies Shoes' when the path ended. She was not one to complain about getting a little dirty, hence the men's boots, but her mother would have a _fit_ if Isabelle came back from the trip with broken shoes. Clarissa and Simon led her to the exact centre of the meadow, where the grass seemed to disappear and was replaced with a soft moss. Before Isabelle could step on it, Clarissa pointed out swirling black lines etched into the moss.

"I like painting this spot. Every time I paint it, the picture turns out differently, as if my interpretation of the etchings changes each time. I don't know what they mean, but I like the think they were put here by an angel." Clarissa explained. She sat down gingerly on the grass, Simon and Isabelle following suit.

"Your father has angel motifs all over the castle," Isabelle said.

Clarissa nodded, playing with blade of grass. "Yes, he does. Our family name, _Morgenstern_ means 'Morning Star' in Latin. My father seems to think our family line started with angels. I do not agree. We are just like normal people, not unnatural in any way."

Isabelle had to disagree. Clarissa's brother Jonathan was the most unnaturally beautiful man she had ever seen. The sight of him made Isabelle feel infatuated, something that _never_ happened to Isabelle. Clarissa seemed to sense what Isabelle was going to say. "Jonathan is betrothed to Camille Belcourt, the daughter of the richest Duke in all of France. The only think I can see that is unnatural about my brother is that he thinks he is above all else. I guess that is rightly so, seeing as he is next in line for the crown."

Isabelle smiled at that. "That makes two of us, Clary. Jace and Alec think they're high and mighty two with their bond and everything."

Clarissa looked at Isabelle strangely. "What did you call me? Clary?"

Isabelle nodded. "It's a nickname. I thought it fit you. Do you like it? It reminds me of the herb _clary sage_. The one that is supposed to allow people to see faeries." Clary looked like she was thinking it over.

"Yes, I think I like that nickname. Now, what were you saying about Jace and Alec having a bond, Iz?" Clary said.

Isabelle smiled. She could see herself and Clary becoming good friends. "Well, in England, Jace's father set up a tradition where two knights are bonded together. He calls them _parabatai_, which is a concept he got from an old text telling a story of two warriors bonded together being able to defeat an army of men alone. So our knights now have a chance to choose someone that they will be bonded to. The book even showed the incantation and oaths the warriors used, as well as the ancient rune that we tattoo on the _parabatai_. Alec's is on his collarbone, and you will have to see for yourself where Jace's is."

Clary groaned. Isabelle could see the other girl's walls coming down, trusting Isabelle with more and more of her true self. "That reminds me, Jace and I are scheduled to go for a walk around the town tomorrow, set up by my mother and his. Did you know that your whole month-long trip here is _scheduled_? And then, in five-months time, when I come to visit _your_ castle in England that too will be scheduled?" Isabelle understood Clary's frustration at having her whole life laid out for her.

A bell clanged in the distance and Simon stood up. "Lady Isabelle, Clarissa, I must depart now, I have serving duty to attend to." Simon broke into a run.

Clary stood up. "We should be going too, Isabelle. Father does not take kindly to people, especially his own family, showing up late to meals."

Isabelle stood up too, looking at the moss one last time. "Let's go to lunch then," she said, smiling and hooking her arm through Clary's.

**There it is. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, it was challenging to write, but then again, I think the first chapter of any story is the most difficult one to write because it sets the tone for the rest of the story. Hopefully I did a good job on this one. Please review and tell me what you think. Again, be kind as this is my first story set in a backdrop such as this one. This is also unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.**

**xoxo,**

**FireandIce95**


	3. Chapter 2: Stroll

**So, I know I said I was going to update _Resurfacing_ first, but I felt . . . _inspired_ to write this chapter after all the kind and amazing reviews I got. So this chapter is for all of my lovely readers and reviewers. Enjoy this chapter!**

**Disclaimer: All characters are property of Cassandra Clare**

****AUTHOR'S NOTE (August 1, 2012): So, I hit a huge writer's block with this story. I reread all that I had written and decided that I needed to go back and redefine the story lines again. So this is the new, longer, better prologue. Re-read and re-review for me?****

2. Stroll

_England 1667_

Jace walked through the courtyard amid the hustle and bustle of the villagers. Stalls were set up, selling jewellery, fresh vegetables, meat, and the like. Jace's father had told him to go out and enjoy himself, maybe even buy something nice. Jace knew his father did not really mean it. Stephen merely wanted his eleven-year old out of the castle while he and his men talked strategy. Jace knew something was going on, his father just refused to talk with him about it. _When I turn sixteen and I'm allowed to fight_, Jace thought, _Father will not be capable of keeping things like this from me_.

Jace decided to visit the blacksmith's shop. The blacksmith, Patrick Penhallow, had a daughter named Aline that Jace was friends of a sort with. Jace suspected that Aline did not like him very much, but she was funny and was good at listening to his problems. When he reached the shop, Aline was sitting on the front steps, her head in her hands.

"Jace? What are you doing 'ere?" Aline asked. She pushed the loose strands of dark hair out of her face. "Father's inside talking to some knights. I've been eavesdropping on them for the last 'alf and hour, they're talking 'bout you," she said.

Jace's eyes widened. "What are they saying about me?" he asked, hurrying to sit beside Aline where he could hear their exchange.

"_Stephen says his boy has the mark. The one from the scroll. And, and that if the French girl has it too, the prophecy could be coming true. This will bring great things! But we need to keep the boy ignorant, he cannot know about this. Stephen says that whoever tells will be executed._" A gruff voice said.

_ They are talking about me!_, Jace thought. But, he did not have a mark, did he? His face was unlined and he had never been in battle before. Without speaking, Aline pulled the neck of Jace's tunic down slightly, revealing his star-shaped birthmark. He knew it wasn't an ordinary birthmark. It was raised like a scar and puckered as if someone had knifed him there. But he knew that was not true. It was the Herondale mark; his father had one just like it, except it was not as raised.

"They're talkin' about this, Jace. Something's 'appening, I know it!" Aline whisper-shouted, her eyes alight. "You're someone special, Jace!"

Jace shook his head. "We _know_ I am special, Aline. I am the King's son. I think they are lying, my father would _never_ keep anything like this from me." As soon as he spoke the words, Jace knew it was not true. His father kept many things from him. Like why he hated France so much, and why he would not let Jace read half the books in the library.

_Just you wait, Father_, Jace thought, _when I turn sixteen you are not going to be able to keep _anything_ from me_.

_France 1673_

"I would like to propose a toast," Queen Jocelyn said, holding up her crystal glass, "a toast to the union between England and France!"

Jonathan gave his mother a stony glare. She acted like this union was a big deal when really it was not going to affect who sat on the throne in any way. He was still going to become King of France when his dear _papa_ died, and Clarissa was still going to be the worthless daughter whom people would forget the name of in fifty years time.

Jonathan lifted his glass of wine. "I agree that a toast is certainly in order. To the union of Jonathan Christopher and Clarissa!" He used the English bastard's full name, enjoying the scowl that was sent his way.

His sister, on the other hand, was biting her lip and looking otherwise unaffected by his remark. That was the opposite of what he wanted. Because of this _stupide_ union his pathetic _petite s__œ__ur _was receiving all the attention. She was not _that_ important. If anything, this union proved that she was not fully loyal to France. After all, what true French citizen would wish to marry into an English family, and a _royal_ English family, no less?

"So, Jace, you are to take my daughter out for a stroll of the town this afternoon?" Jocelyn asked the bastard.

Before he got a chance to open his stupid mouth, Clarissa opened hers. "_Mais maman, tu as dit notre premi__è__re sortie n'a pas __été jusqu'à demain?_" His sister asked in French. At least she was still speaking the right language.

"Clarissa," Jocelyn scolded, looking to Valentine for backup, "we will speak in our guest's native tongue for the duration of their stay. And your father and I decided to add another outing, so you will go on your stroll today."

Jonathan hid his smile in his glass of wine, taking a long sip. The Herondale boy had a fascinated look on his face, which he quickly flipped back to arrogantly _English_. "It is alright, Queen Jocelyn, I learned to speak multiple languages at a young age, one of which was French. _Votre maison est très belle_," he said.

Jocelyn flushed. "_Merci beaucoup,_ Jace."

Clarissa glared at her. "So you can speak French, but I cannot?" she asked indignantly. Jonathan could see his father's anger bubbling up.

Jocelyn sighed. "Clarissa, I think you are tired. Maybe you should excuse yourself from the table so you can rest before your outing." Clarissa's jaw dropped and Jonathan had to take another sip from his wine glass.

"I am not a child that needs to be coddled!" she said, pushing her chair away from the table forcefully.

"Clarissa!" Valentine's voice rose above the squalor "Sit back down. You are correct; we should not be coddling you. You are a big girl, perfectly capable of making adult choices. Is the choice you are making right now adult?"

Clarissa pursed her lips before pulling her chair back in to the table. "Mother would you be so kind as to pass the mashed potatoes?"

Jocelyn smiled and nodded, passing the wooden bowl to Clarissa. Jonathan felt something bubble up in his chest. Jealousy? No, he never got jealous of Clarissa. Not even when she got away for things he could not. Jealousy was not a part of him. Instead, he was angry. He was angry that his sister, a worthless whore, was given better treatment than he, the future king.

Clary wished she could take her dress off. She was on her 'stroll' with Jace, sweating in the heat, while he was wearing a simple shirt and trousers looking as comfortable as anything. She lifted a hand to fan herself.

"Are you too warm?" Jace asked, acting the part of a gentleman.

"Yes, this dress is dreadfully hot. Do you know how to swim?" Clary asked. She knew the perfect place to cool off. Of course, they would have to keep it a secret because her parents would never approve of them swimming together on their first outing.

Jace nodded. "Yes, but why? It is not _that_ warm out. How about I buy you a drink?"

Clary rolled her eyes but nodded. "How old are you, Clarissa?" Jace asked her.

She smiled at him wryly, steering them towards the nearest tavern. "I am fifteen. Why? How old are you?"

Jace looked at their surroundings. "No reason. I am seventeen; my birthday was a few months ago."

Clary smiled at the tavern owner. "_Bonjour, Monsieur _Verlac. _C'est mon . . . ami Jace_."

The tavern owner, a plump man with rosy red cheeks and a balding head smiled at Jace. "_Bonjour, _Jace_. Comment puis-je vous aider aujourd'hui?_"

Jace took a deep breath, looking at the tavern's customers. A man was greying hair sat in the corner, cradling his cup like it was a baby, and a group of townspeople sat at the bar. "_Je voudrais commander un verre d'eau pour moi et pour tout Clarissa veut_," Jace said, surprising Clary. She half expected him to whisk her out of the tavern.

Clary smiled at Jace, impressed by how gentleman-like he was behaving. Maybe she had been mistaken in the throne room and that Jace was really good. After all, Clary understood better than _anyone _how frustrating her brother Jonathan could be. Jace was right not to want to be confused with him. "_Je voudrais un verre du jus de pomme_," Clary replied, smiling at the tavern-keeper as he went to get their drinks. Jace led Clary to a table with a candle in the centre.

"You are only fifteen, and yet you speak to this tavern-keeper as if you are here every day?" Jace asked with a laugh in his voice.

Clary frowned at him. "I turn sixteen next week, thank you very much," she replied, staring out the window.

Jace sighed and put his head in his hands. _Is he having a horrible time?_ Clary wondered. "What are your _passe-temps_?" she asked him, trying to start a conversation.

Jace cracked a smile. "You mean my _hobbies_? Well, Alec and I practice sword fighting together all the time—mind you, I beat him every time—and I enjoy running. What of your hobbies?"

Clary rolled her eyes. Jace was the English version of her brother. "I like to paint and draw. My parents disagree; they do not think painting is an acceptable hobby for a girl, although I have it on good authority that my mother used to paint as a child."

A dark haired boy carrying two glasses walked towards their table. "_Bonjour, Clarissa. Qui est votre ami_?" the boy asked.

Jace was looking at the boy with a careful look on his face. Was Jace acting . . . _protective_? "Hello Sebastian, this is Jace, he's my . . . friend from England," Clary told the boy in English.

Sebastian gave her a strange look, but flipped to speaking in English. "Oh, yes, we were told you were coming Prince Jace," Sebastian said, bowing slightly. He placed the drinks on our table.

Clary took a sip of hers. "We are taking a walk through the village. I told my parents I would give Jace a tour. And no tour is complete without a trip to the tavern," she laughed, trying to ease the tension.

Sebastian smiled at her. "Yes, I suppose it is not. How was your trip?" Sebastian asked Jace.

Jace looked at his perfect nails. "It was long. We ran into a group of robbers along the way, whom we had to dismember," he replied, as if that was perfectly normal.

Clary and Sebastian exchanged a look. "I guess I had better get back to work. _Avoir un bonne journée, _Clarissa. Jace," he said nodding.

Clary felt pity knot up in her stomach. She and Sebastian had been good friends for a long time, he probably felt as if she had thrown him away for the English prince. Clary took a sip of her apple juice, relishing its sweet flavour and cool feeling on her tongue. Jace had finished his water and was looking out the window at the sun. He stood up abruptly. "It is time for me to bring you back," he said, not looking at her.

Clary felt the knot of pity in her stomach get bigger. Jace thought she liked Sebastian, Sebastian thought she liked Jace. And well, Clary was not sure who she liked.

* * *

><p>Isabelle waited outside the throne room for Jonathan to walk out. Regardless of what Clary told her, Isabelle thought Jonathan was beautiful beyond belief. He was her kind of lover—dangerous, someone her parents and brother would definitely disapprove of, and all gorgeous. She was wearing her finest dress, made of silk with silver fibres woven in, giving it an icy sheen.<p>

She shifted the bodice to make absolutely sure that she wasn't going to get a Simon-and-cleavage introduction to Jonathan too. Although, she had a feeling Jonathan would react differently to an off-center dress than the lanky servant.

Footsteps sounded behind the door. Isabelle moved out of the way, hiding in the shadows of a life-size statue of an angel. She hid between his wings, noticing the golden eyes inserted in each wing tip. "Of course Father, I will see you this evening," Jonathan said, walking out of the room. I slipped out from around the angel, walking right into Jonathan. She caught me and pushed me back on to my feet.

"What was that?" he demanded, his expression not what I thought it would be.

I put on my 'innocent girl' face. "I'm so sorry, Prince! I was looking for my chamber, and I was so sure it was down this hall! Your castle is just so big; I'm not used to it."

Jonathan nodded, as if my excuse was perfectly viable. "I can show you to your room if you wish," Jonathan said, sounding like a true gentleman.

"I think a tour of the castle is more what I need," Isabelle said, laughing.

Jonathan smiled at her. "A tour of the castle it is then," he said. Isabelle hooked her arm through his, patting his hand.

"Thank you. This really means so much to me." She batted her eyelashes. Jonathan gave her a wry smile in response.

"For an English girl, you are actually not as ugly as I thought you might be," Jonathan said, as if this was the world's greatest compliment.

_Bullshit_, Isabelle thought_, I'm a hell of a lot prettier than half the girls in France_. Instead, she replied: "Thank you, Prince that is most kind of you to say."

Jonathan led Isabelle down a corridor, this one filled with depictions of what looked like hell. The paintings were full of bloody people, their faces contorted with pain. The colour scheme seemed to be blacks, greys, and reds. Even the carpet below Isabelle's feet was blood red. "This décor is quite . . . morbid," Isabelle commented.

Jonathan didn't look offended. "Yes, it is. The chambers in this hallway are used for war councils and strategy planning. The stairs at the other end of this hallway lead to the dungeons and the torture chamber."

The Hall of Morbidity continued in the next hall. These paintings depicted The Fall, the Great War in Heaven. "Do you know what Morgenstern means?" When Isabelle shook her head, no, Jonathan continued. "It means 'Morning Star'. It is said that Morgenstern's contain the diluted blood of the great fallen angel, Lucifer, the Morning Star. That is why we are the greatest warriors."

Isabelle didn't respond. She wasn't entirely convinced that Morgenstern's were such better than warriors than the Herondale's. She didn't tell Jonathan this, though. "That's true; I know that _I_ would bet on a Morgenstern over a Herondale in a fight, any day."

Jonathan smirked in a way that reminded Isabelle of Jace. "Is that true, now?" he asked.

Isabelle nodded. "I don't know why I was born English, I prefer French everything. The language, the food, the _men_," Isabelle purred the last word, putting her lips within whispering distance of his ear. Jonathan ran his hand through her hair, turning her head so she would look at him. His eyes were dark with desire and Isabelle could feel her pulse racing. His lips met with hers roughly, kissing her in a way much more passionately than she had been kissed before. She had been with many men before, especially for a girl her age, but Jonathan was _different_. He wasn't careful with her. And, Isabelle decided, she liked it better that way. She opened her lips, giving his tongue access so her mouth. She let her hands explore the contours of his muscled back, the silkiness of his white-blond hair, the hardness of his abdominal muscles. It was like she was floating.

When they came up for breath, Isabelle gazed into Jonathan's dark eyes. "French men are _much_ better kisser than English men. I wonder if you are better in any other ways."

Jonathan's eyes glittered dangerously. "The French are better than the English in many ways, Lady Isabelle. I can demonstrate another if you wish."

Isabelle smiled back. "Yes, I do wish. Just tell me where we need to go, Prince."

* * *

><p>Alec was wandering. Jace was on his outing with Clarissa and his sister was God-knows-where with God-knows-who doing God-knows-what. This castle was laid out much like other castles Alec had seen. Armoury near the throne room, dungeon and torture chamber underground, guest rooms located in the left wing and the royal family's rooms located in the right.<p>

Seeing as this castle was laid out similarly to the others ones Alec had been to, he also knew that the physician lived in the right wing and the at base of the tower for easy access. That was where Alec needed to go. The physician at the castle in England, a man named Ragnor Fell, had directed Alec to visit Magnus Bane in France. It just so happened that Magnus Bane was also a physician.

Alec had a problem. He was absolutely certain that he had been cursed by a demon because every time he saw Jace, he felt . . . feelings. Feelings boys should not have for other boys. Fell told Alec that Magnus would have the antidote, a way to break the curse set upon him. Alec had no idea why someone would want to curse him, only that through some accident he had been cursed.

Alec tentatively knocked on the door, unsure of why he should be so wary of this physician. A man who did not look much older than Alec opened the door. He had dark hair that stuck up in spikes on his head and yellow cat eyes. "Alexander Lightwood," the man sighed, his eyes widening, "what brings you to my humble abode?"

Alec was taken aback. He had not informed anyone of his plans to come here, so how did Magnus Bane know him? "Shut your mouth Alexander, it's not very becoming," Magnus said, his voice sounding tired.

"H—how, what, when, where, why, _how_?" Alec spluttered.

A satisfied look crossed Magnus Bane's face. "I know _everything_, Alexander dearest. You're here about a curse, aren't you? Why don't you come in and tell me _all_ about it." Magnus opened the door wider, motioning for Alec to step inside.

"You are not going to hurt me, are you?" Alec asked.

Magnus laughed. "No, no, darling, I wouldn't _dream_ of it." Alec sighed in defeat and walked in. Magnus's home was filled with what looked like artifacts from all over the world. He had a cat-shaped coffin that looked like it was from Egypt, gladiator garb from Rome, a fan from the Orient, and a what looked like a piece of marble but was probably the remnants of a temple somewhere.

"Family heirlooms?" Alec asked.

Magnus smiled at him. "No, Alexander, these are all mine," he said, a peculiar tone entering her voice.

"Oh. Did you purchase them?" Magnus rolled his eyes at Alec.

"No, no, no, darling, I was _there_," Magnus explained, looking at Alec as if he was being stupid and the answer was right in front of him.

"Wait—so you were alive when the gladiators were around? That . . . that would make you—" Alec did not get to finish his sentence.

"Hundreds of years old. Yes, I know all this Alexander dearest. I look good for someone who's been alive for hundreds of years, do I not?" Magnus was studying Alec's face, waiting for his reaction. "The gladiator suit was my lover Woolsey Scott's. His dying wish was for me to take them. Mind you, he only died fifty or so years ago. Was killed by one of his own, what a pity that is."

Alec stumbled back a few steps. _Lover_? A gladiator? A _man_? "I—I think I should be going now," Alec said, taking careful steps towards the door. He could hear a rattling noise to his right, where the cat-casket lay. The cat-head part of the casket popped off, revealing the world's tiniest cat with glowing yellow eyes. Alec jumped back and heard a high-pitched shriek which he refused to believe came from his mouth. Turning, he wrenched the door open and flung himself out.

"Oh, dear," Magnus said once his guest was gone, "I do think we've frightened him, Chairman."

**So, there it is. I just have a tiny note on character that might help you when reading this story. Given the time period, it is a tad hard for me to make the characters exactly like they were in the books. So, the way I've chosen to do it is through their words and their grammar. So far, Isabelle is the only girl, or person in general I think, that we've seen swore and this is to show that's she's rebellious and plays by her one rules. Magnus is French, but he speaks with more control over the English language, hence him using phrases such as 'don't' and 'aren't'. Clary's character is going to change dramatically throughout this story, altering the way she speaks. You can already see one change which is in her nickname. Jace speaks very proper, because he is royalty, and Alec . . . well he's just Alec which is explanation enough for how he speaks and orients himself. I hope this has helped clarify! Anyway, thank you for your amazing reviews from the last 2 chapters, they were so great to read. Review some more for me?**

**xoxo,**

**FireandIce95**


	4. Chapter 3: Swim

**Sorry this update took me so long! Thank you for all of your patience and super-sweet reviews. You're all the greatest! I decided to take a break from studying for exams to post this, so enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters are property of Cassandra Clare**

****AUTHOR'S NOTE (August 1, 2012): So, I hit a huge writer's block with this story. I reread all that I had written and decided that I needed to go back and redefine the story lines again. So this is the new, longer, better prologue. Re-read and re-review for me?****

3. Swim

_France 1673_

_Son, _

_I am grievously sorry that I did not disclose this information to you earlier. Yes, indeed, the mark on your shoulder is no typical Herondale mark. Neither is the mark you claimed you felt obliged to get on your torso. Both are symbols of your destiny. You are almost certainly rolling your eyes as you read this son, but you have to trust what I am saying. Your destiny is entwined with the destiny of Morgenstern's daughter, Clarissa. _

_She, too, has the angel's mark, a twin of your own, on her shoulder. If you do not believe me, find out for yourself. And your other mark? Visit the meadow behind the castle and see for yourself. It is carved into the moss. _

_Please do not rebel against anything Valentine asks. He does not know the truth and I cannot tell him for fear of him using the information against us. Do not ask me how, for I do not know. But Valentine would find his own twisted way. Heed my advice and work your hardest to make this union work, it will mean great things for our kingdom. Your mother also sends her love._

_Stephen Herondale, King of England_

Jace slammed his fist on the writing desk. Could his father not have told him years ago? He made a complete . . . _ass_ of himself during their first meeting for _nothing_. Alec, who had been sitting on Jace's bed for the last hour or so, jumped at the noise.

"Really, Alec? The sound of swords clashing in training does not make you jump, and yet me slamming my fist on a desk has you trembling?" Jace shook his head at his _parabatai_'s antics.

Alec sat up straight and tried to look indignant. "I am _not _trembling!"

"Yes, you are. Now, stop, if someone comes in and sees you trembling like that, they are going to think I did something."

Now it was Alec's turn to roll his eyes. "Speaking of doing something how was your _outing_ with the Lady Clarissa?"

Jace looked at his feet. All in all, it honestly was not _that_ horrible of an outing. He thought Sebastian was an annoyance, but the only thing that really bothered him was that this _fifteen_ year old was being forced to marry. "It was fine." The thing Jace appreciated about Alec was that unlike his sister, he did not feel the need to know all the details. This was probably because, despite being handy with a sword, Alec was afraid of his own shadow.

Alec bit his lip, a sign that something was bothering him. "That is good, your father will be please," Alec replied.

Jace gave his _parabatai_ a sidelong glance. "What is it, Alec? You are seconds away from chewing your own lip off, so tell me, what is wrong?" Jace asked with a sigh. An anxious Alec was _never_ a good thing and Isabelle—who was nowhere to be found—seemed to be the only able to pull him back to semi-normalcy.

Alec looked taken aback. To his credit, Jace actually found his facial expression semi-believable. But it was not enough to fool even the most gullible of people. "What? Nothing, nothing is wrong with me."

Jace shook his head and looked out the window. The sun was rising, shattering the calm of the dark night sky. Jace had always loved that time between night and morning, when the sky was half dark and half light. It reminded him of possibilities. That a new day was upon him and it was his duty to make the best of it.

"Fine, do not tell me. They will be summoning us to breakfast soon, and while you are dressed, I am not." Jace walked over to his case, searching through his neatly packed clothing until he found what he wanted. The corner of the room had an oriental screen divider. Jace stepped behind, stripping himself of his clothing. He searched through his clothing before realizing he forgot a shirt, instead having picked up his riding jacket. Hastily pulling on a pair of pants, Jace walked out from behind the divider, surprising Alec with his half-naked form.

Alec's eyes roamed over Jace's sculpted torso before hurrying to look at the ground. "I—I have to go," Alec said, his face flushing bright red. He half-ran out of the room, almost hitting the door on his way out.

As much as Jace was surprised by Alec's behaviour, he was not _that_ surprised. This was Alec, after all. His _parabatai_. And Jace had come to except that when Alec was involved normalcy was an abnormality.

Isabelle pulled her dress back on in the morning light, relishing the feeling of butterflies in her stomach. She felt amazing, like she always did the morning after. Of course, she and Jonathan didn't actually _do_ anything, but they did kiss for hours with her dress on the floor and his shirt flung across the room. Isabelle had a yearning to hop back in the bed, straddling him, leaving her dress off and pulling of his pants to remove all barriers. Isabelle's fingers tingled with the memory of running them along his sharply cut abdominal muscles, running along his biceps, his triceps, his deltoids. She shivered at the thought of how she ran her fingers through his smooth, silky hair while his hands roamed her body and his mouth devoured hers.

Jonathan stirred in his bed, his blond head peeking out from above the covers. Isabelle finished pulling her dress up, and then walked over to the bed, planting a chaste kiss on his forehead. "Sleep well, Prince," she whispered.

Jonathan's eyes flickered open and he smiled up at her, the most genuine smile she gotten all night. "_Bon matin_," he said, his French accent sounding even sexier to Isabelle in this context.

"Good morning. I have to go now, but we should do this again some time," Isabelle said, smiling and pressing her lips to his in a kiss that started off slow and morphed into a fierce battle for dominance. She removed her lips from his, tracing the shape of his with the tip of her tongue. "Goodbye."

She snuck out of the room, fixing her hair as she went. There was _nothing_ worse than getting caught with sex hair. Isabelle tiptoed past Clary's room, careful not to make any noises. She was even carrying her boots and walking barefoot to reduce the noise. She rounded the corner, looking both ways to make sure no one was coming. This particular hallway looked even eerier in the morning light. The wolf head snarled at Isabelle from its perch and the fox watched her with its empty eye sockets.

"_Qu'est-ce que tu fais_?" a female voice said in the quiet darkness.

Isabelle turned around to see a girl, not much older than her, walking alone through the hallway. The girl had long blonde hair, perfectly curled and pinned to her head. Her dress reminded Isabelle of something she owned, velvety and a rich red colour with a low cut bodice revealing a lot of cleavage.

"I'm going for a walk. I could be asking you the same thing, though." Isabelle said, her tone icy. This girl rubbed her the wrong way.

"I am going to visit, my betrothed, Prince Jonathan. You are not coming from his chambers are you? I do not take lightly to whores seducing my husband-to-be," the blonde replied in a haughty tone.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. "Who the hell are you to call _me_ a whore? Have you seen what you're wearing?"

The blonde nodded coolly, her green eyes reminding Isabelle of their cat at home when he was stalking a mouse. "I am Lady Camille Belcourt, and who are you, Mademoiselle Whore?"

Isabelle took a deep breath and plastered a smile on her face. "I am Lady Isabelle Lightwood of England, I am here as one of Prince Jace's guests."

Camille regarded Isabelle with a curious look on her face. "Yes, I heard the Prince of England had strange tastes and is known to sleep around, but I did not know he brought girls from the brothel here with him. And why he chose to bring _you_ out of all of them surprises me the most."

Isabelle took a deep breath to keep her temper in check. "The Prince is to be betrothed to Lady Clarissa and he doesn't sleep around. And I'm not whore, nor do I look like one."

Camille raised her blonde eyebrows. "That is not necessarily something to be proud of," she said, looking Isabelle over from head to toe, lingering on her bare feet.

_Damn it_, Isabelle thought. "I was practicing walking quietly; some of us have the decency not to disturb people. Not that you would understand," Isabelle said, shrugging her shoulders.

Camille lifted her head haughtily and turned on her heel, strutting down the hall to Jonathan's room. Isabelle wished she had stayed in there, so the bitch could see her 'betrothed' making love to another, more beautiful girl.

* * *

><p>Jace sat in the dining room, eating breakfast alone at the table. Apparently, the royal family insisted on eating separately from their guests today, leaving Jace to eat with Alec, who had disappeared after the shirt debacle, and Isabelle, who was probably still dead to the world. Jace cut into his breakfast sausage, wincing at the grinding sound of the knife on the plate in the dead silence of the room.<p>

Footsteps tapped on the floor. For a minute, Jace thought it might be Alec, finally coming down for some food. As the footsteps, and the body that came with them, rounded the corner and Jace realized he could not have been more wrong.

Clarissa, dressed in a simple pink dress with a gold braided rope cinching it at her waist, stood in front of him, a small smile on his face. She crossed the room and sat beside him at the table, angling her chair so she faced him. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday's outing," she said, sounding sincere.

Jace moved his chair, too. "Do not worry, I think it went fine."

She sighed, twirling a piece of her loose red hair. "No, it did not. I want you to know there was never anything between Sebastian and I. Yes, we may have thought about it before, but it was all only for fun, only so I would not be lonely when my parents were doing things together and Jonathan was taking Camille on outings. And you know that it never would have worked out. My father would reject it, thinking it is lowly for a girl of royal blood, _Morgenstern_ blood especially, to marry beneath her."

He noticed how green her eyes were when she looked at him. They were a pretty shade of green, emerald with a lighter shade of jade green outlining them. "Your father seems harsh," Jace said.

Clarissa stiffened. "He is not a harsh man. He is a good king and a good father."

_Damn it_, Jace thought, watching her green eyes harden. "I did not mean to insult your family. I am sure your father is a good man."

Clarissa pushed her red hair behind her ear. "I was wondering, if, since you do not have anything to do, if you would like to go for a swim. I know we were interrupted yesterday, and I want to make up for it. I might not know if I want to spend my life with you yet, but I do know that I will never know if I do not make an effort to try."

What she said made sense to Jace. He had only been in France for two days, and all he knew about Clarissa was that she had green eyes, red hair, was short, and had a village boy vying for her love. If she went to England, he was sure she would find the same thing, except it was girls vying for his love. "I think I would like that."

The smile that crossed Clarissa's face was breathtaking. It lifted the corners of her mouth and parted her pink lips, revealing straight white teeth. "Good. You might want to get a change of clothes, I am going to ready the horses and have the kitchen staff prepare us something. Meet me by the stables." Clarissa said, turning away.

Jace felt like he should say . . . something, anything, but for once in his life, his eloquence left him and he was sure that if he opened his mouth he would sound like a babbling fool. So he gave her a half-smile and walked out of the room to gather his things.

Five minutes later, he met Clarissa by the stables. She was holding the reins of a beautiful silky-white horse. "This is Charity. My father gave her to me for my twelfth birthday. The same day I learned that I was to marry a prince from England," she said, running her hand through the mare's mane. "I was not sure which horse was yours, so you will have to get him yourself."

Jace nodded, stepping into the stable and looking for his black stallion. The horse, like Clarissa's, had been a gift. However, unlike her, he received his at the age of ten and had trained him on his own. He patted the horses head and whispered hello into the horse's ear. He walked the horse out of the stable, keeping a tight grip on the reins. "This is Shadow," he told Clarissa, watching her eyes go wide at the sight of his horse.

"He is beautiful. I should have known that he would be yours." She cast her eyes downwards. "Shall we head out? It is a good five minute ride to the lake."

Jace nodded, mounting Shadow. "You lead," he said, trying to make his voice sound suggesting instead of commanding.

Clarissa smiled back at him. "Yes, I think I shall lead. We wouldn't want to get lost, would we?"

Her voice had a joking tone to it and a carefree lilt Jace had not heard before. "Yes, that is probably for the best. Lead on."

Clarissa and Charity started off at a trot, Clarissa looking regal and fiery on the white horses back. She had a loose grip on her reigns, as if she trusted Charity to lead them directly to the lake. Shadow stamped his hooves impatiently under Jace's tight grip. He was not used to this speed, preferring to race Alec's speckled stallion, Pigeon.

Clarissa led them past the castle walls, winking at the guards and waving good-bye to them. Clearly this was a common occurrence to the guards. As soon as they were past the walls, Clarissa allowed Charity to break out into a gallop, the wind whipping at her red locks. Shadow bucked slightly, lifting his front hooves off the ground and grunting. Jace dug his heels into the horse, urging him to go faster, to catch up with the French princess and her horse.

Greenery whipped by. Trees dotted the horizon, still glittering with dew in the sunlight. Jace could faintly see a mass of blue glittering water on the horizon, near the glittering trees. Clarissa shouted something that was carried away by the wind and pointed to the horizon. _That must be the lake_, Jace thought. Clarissa began to gallop faster, and Jace urged Shadow to do the same, unleashing the horse's speed.

The lake became bigger and bigger, until Jace realized that it was at least the same size as the village they had been in yesterday. There were no ports on the lake, no river feeding it. The lake simply was. Clarissa stopped abruptly, and Jace pulled hard on Shadow's reins. Clarissa hopped off Charity, holding the horse's reins tightly. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asked, her voice in awe.

Jace hopped off Shadow and led him over to where Clarissa was standing. "Yes, it is."

"People always wonder how this lake got here. There aren't any rivers to feed it water from the ocean, so how could it be? My brother's fiancée, Camille Belcourt, is the daughter of a geographer. He studies the earth and why it is how it is. He says that the lake was formed of an oxbow river; a river that meandered so much that part of it was cut off by the flow of water trying to get to its destination quickly. I think the lake is much too perfectly oval for that to be true. There is nothing bow-like about this lake. It is called Lake Lyn, and why I do not know."

Jace stared out at the lake. It was the perfect blue colour, reflecting the sky. The lake's surface was as smooth as a mirror, as unmarred as Clarissa's horse Charity. "Shall we swim now?" Clarissa asked, a small smile tugging on her lips. _She's really making an effort to make this work_, Jace realized, feeling himself smile too.

"Sure," he replied, looking around. "Where should we tie the horses off?"

Clarissa pointed to a nearby tree. "There. That is where I usually tether Charity off. Although, I will admit, I have only been here adventuring. I have never swum in this lake." Clarissa walked her horse over; tying Charity to the highest branch she could reach. Once she had finished, she grabbed the saddlebag and walked down to a rocky outcropping on the shore of the lake. Jace followed suit, tethering Shadow beside Charity.

When he got to the outcropping, he found Clarissa lying on the warm rock, saddlebag set beside her. "It's a really nice day," she commented, not sitting up as he approached.

Jace looked down at her small figure, petite torso connecting to petite legs and proportionate bare feet. He smiled, sitting down beside her and taking his boots off too. The rock felt warm on his feet. "Do you want to eat first or go for a swim?" Clarissa asked.

"Swim first," Jace replied without thinking. He had just eaten and the warm rock was making the water look heavenly.

Clarissa sat up and began unlacing her dress. Jace had to lock his jaw to keep his mouth from falling open. She shucked off her pink dress, revealing a pale green slip. She smiled at Jace before walking to the end of the outcropping and diving right into the water. He stood up in an instant, searching the water for her. _If I lose her, her father will have my head_.

Clarissa's head popped out, a smirk on her face. "Worried about me?" she asked coyly.

Jace erased his concerned look. "No, I just wanted to make sure I would not have to bring you dead body back to your castle." Jace started to pull his shirt off.

Clary stared as the English prince took his shirt off. The blue material was discarded and he was left standing there, wearing only a pair of trousers. _Oh mon Dieu_, Clary thought, her eyes unwillingly scouring his bare torso. She had never seen a shirtless man before, well, not one that wasn't injured or dying . . . or her older brother.

His body was lithely muscled; wiry muscle under smooth, unmarred skin. He was less bulky than her brother Jonathan, thinner and more toned. His skin glowed gold, like he had an angelic aura to him, unlike her brother's pallor. "Are you going to come in?" she asked.

He smirked, shattering the angelic illusion. He dove into the water, coming up beside her seconds later. She laughed and pushed him away, swimming backwards. His curly blond hair was wet, turning it two shades darker and allowing it to fall into his face. His gold eyes glittered mischievously, and before she knew it, he was gone, back under the water.

"Jace?" she called, unsure whether he was joking or if something was pulling him down. "Jace? Can you hear me?"

She felt a tug on her foot, and screamed. A laughing Jace surfaced, making her flush with a combination of embarrassment and anger. "What was that for?"

He smiled at her. "Fun. I haven't been swimming since I was little; I wanted to see if I still knew how to hold my breath."

She attempted to pull herself together. "Well, you know how. Good job." A playful spark glittered in her eyes. "I can hold mine longer, though." She dove under herself swimming underwater, thinking, _maybe this relationship can work_.

Jace dove under after her; she could feel the bubbles rise as he swam beneath her. She looked down at him, smiling and kicking her legs faster. She went deeper, trying to get under Jace, maybe swim a loop around him, when she felt something change. The calm current became rougher, more turbulent, pulling her under deeper. She saw rocks falling in the water and tried to swim backward. The rough current pulled her closer to the rocks, threatening to push her into the fray of falling stone. Gasping, she swallowed a mouthful of water. She felt water going down her throat and she forced herself to blow air out of her nose.

She closed her eyes, trying to relax her body and kick her way to the surface. A pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her to the surface.

* * *

><p>Alec knocked on Magnus's door, frantically. A sleepy-looking Magnus Bane opened it, looking peeved. "What do you want now, Alexander?"<p>

Alec looked around to make sure no one else was in the hallway. "I need a remedy for this curse. These . . . feelings . . . are driving me insane. I ran out of the room this morning when I saw Jace, my _parabatai_, take his shirt off. It . . . it is not right."

"Alexander, darling, this is not a curse, not the way you think it is," Magnus said, his cat-eyes staring into Alec's soul. He felt the strongest urge to pull away, but something kept him unable to move.

"Then enlighten me," Alec said, his hands shaking. Magnus motioned for Alec to enter the room.

"Welcome to my humble abode. Chairman and I are both grievously sorry for the scare you received upon your last visit. Please, Alexander, sit," Magnus smiled at him and patted the arm of a leather couch.

Alec sat, tentatively, half expecting something strange to pop out of the couch. "Are you going to help me?"

Magnus smiled at him and sat on the couch next to him. "Would you like some tea, Alexander?" When Alec shook his head, Magnus shrugged his shoulders. "Your loss." Muttering a few words in a language Alec did not know, Magnus smiled again and lifted a cup of tea to his lips.

"How?" Alec asked, his eyes going wider than usual.

Magnus put his finger up to his lips. "Our little secret, Alexander. Now, I have some tests which will determine if you are, in fact, cursed." Magnus pulled a jar of herbs off the table in front of them and set his china teacup down.

"This is a poultice I made up the last time you were here in case you decided to show up again. It temporarily stuns whatever magick has affected you so I may perform to tests to find out what type of curse this is. I don't want to suspect it is something to be lifted with a medicine of sorts if an exorcism is really what's needed, now would I, Alexander?"

Alec gulped. "So, do I eat it?" he asked, eyeing the poultice nervously. It looked brownish-green and clumpy from what Alec could see.

Magnus unscrewed the lid and handed Alec the jar. "Take the tip of your finger and dip it in the poultice. You are going to touch it to the tip of your tongue and swallow." Alec did as he was told, grimacing as the bitter herbs touched his tongue. Looking to Magnus for instruction, he swallowed.

Magnus smiled. "Good. Now, the first test. Kiss me, and we will monitor your reactions."

Alec looked at Magnus incredulously. "Is that sanitary?"

Magnus rolled his eyes at the British knight. "Yes, it is sanitary. I learned the technique from Ragnor Fell himself. It is used on all cursed patients, to see if they truly are cursed." Smiling again, Magnus pressed his lips to Alec's.

A warm feeling enveloped Alec's body. _The poultice must not be working_, he thought, pushing Magnus and his warm, soft lips away. "I—I do not think this is working. I will come back later, when the poultice has dispersed through my system properly."

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**FireandIce95**


	5. Chapter 4: Curses

**Hey everyone! I'm sorry this has taken me soooo long to write. I've had a major case of writers block, coupled with work and a lot of homework. But I have exams starting soon, so I will have more time to write after that!**

**Here's the chapter! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

****AUTHOR'S NOTE (August 1, 2012): So, I hit a huge writer's block with this story. I reread all that I had written and decided that I needed to go back and redefine the story lines again. So this is the new, longer, better prologue. Re-read and re-review for me?****

4. Curses

_France 1673_

_Mummy and Father,_

_I know I promised to write every day, but I have become sidetracked. France is not what I thought it would be. I thought it would be relaxing, but it has turned out stressful. Isabelle is spending all of her time with the French Prince, Jonathan, and Jace is spending all of his time with Lady Clarissa. I am bored, to say the least. I am looking forward to returning to England. It has been days since Pigeon and I have ridden. I am sure he is missing me, as I miss him. _

_That is all I have time to write for now, as I am very busy helping Jace. _

_Love to my family,_

_Alexander_

Alec stared at the ceiling of his room. He _hated_ this country. He could see why the King of England hated it with such a passion. His two companions were seduced by French royalty, leaving him all alone. Well, not _all_ alone, he did have Magnus Bane. Not that he wanted Magnus Bane at all. Alec was still trying to sort his feelings out.

The image of Jace's nude torso danced before his eyes. Toned muscle, silky smooth skin, corded arms lined with silk of the finest make. He shook his head, sending the image flying just as there was a knock on his door.

"Holy mother of mine," he exclaimed in a whisper, flinging himself off the bed in a graceless manner. He wrenched the door open, revealing Magnus Bane. Alec shuddered as he remembered their test, the kiss. He remembered Magnus's smooth lips on his, his tongue fighting with his brain to trace Magnus's lips. "How may I be of assistance?"

"I wanted to tell you that I have a few more tests to conduct, while the poultice is still potent," Magnus explained.

Alec shook his head, feeling like a disobedient child. "No. You want a chance to kiss me again. You enjoy torturing me. Is this a form of exorcism? To take these wrong feelings and turn them against themselves?"

Magnus shook his head. "Oh Alexander, always the drama queen. I was merely trying to help you."

Alec huffed. "Well maybe I do not want your help. This is a serious issue, if the King Stephen finds out I am cursed he will not allow me to be attached to his son, and the only way to break our bond as _parabatai_ is for one of us to die. For _me_ to die, because the king would _never_ sacrifice his son. Not even if the kingdom depended on it."

"Alexander, this is not a curse. If you would only listen to me, I could tell you that," Magnus began.

Alec held out his hand, silencing Magnus Bane. "I have heard enough of your lies and trickery. Tell me the solution now, or please leave."

Magnus looked Alec in the eyes. Blue glass met tiger eye stone. "There is no antidote, Alexander Lightwood. There is no solution."

Alec looked at his feet. "Then I am going to have to ask you to leave. Do not come back here again. I will find someone else to help me. I would thank you for your services, but you were less help than the dirt beneath my feet. Leave my sight, Bane."

* * *

><p>Jace pressed his hands on either side of Clarissa's head, leaning his ear down to her mouth, searching for a sign of life. Blood trickled onto the rock beneath him from a gash on her head, staining the grey surface. "Clarissa? Clarissa, awaken, this is not a practical joke. I need you to do something. Flex your fingers, blink, at least <em>breathe<em>, God dammit."

Jace removed one hand from beside her head and found his shirt, lying a few feet away. Grabbing it, he tore a strip from the cloth, carefully tying it around her head to staunch the bleeding. He knew from trainings that head wounds could be fatal. He felt behind her ears for fluids signalling brain damage. Upon finding none, he moved to her torso. He gently lifted her up, finding the strings of her worn leather corset and undoing them with agile fingers. He wrenched the accursed garment off her tiny frame, throwing it beyond reach.

He righted her so she faced the sky. His weaker right hand searched her torso for her ribcage, following it to the point where it met in the center of her chest. His hands travelled up to her sternum, where, uttering a string of colourful profanities, he began to perform compressions. _One, please wake up; two, don't let me be too late; three __—__ CRACK_. He ribs gave way, snapping cleanly. Jace winced at the sound and hoped for Clarissa's sake that the break was without splinters. Internal bleeding was a much trickier ailment to deal with than resuscitation.

_She's not dead_, he scolded himself. After thirty compressions, he plugged her nose and sealed his lips over hers, giving her a breath. _Our first kiss was the kiss of life_, he though, seeing the irony in the situation. His breath bounced back at him. He readjusted her airway and tried again. _Please work,_ he prayed, sparing a glance at the heavens. He gave her another breath, which also rebounded. He pressed his hands back on her sternum, pumping her heart.

Half-way through his compressions, he felt her body shudder and a cough make its way up to her lips. He stopped his compressions immediately, shuffling over to her head and lifting it onto his lap. "Clarissa, it's me, Jace. You swallowed a lot of water; I need you to cough it out for me. If you can hear me, cough," he said weakly, sweat dripping down his face.

She didn't make another noise, but a thin liquid began seeping from her mouth. More fluid came out. Jace flipped her onto her side carefully into what was called the semi-prone position. Her head rested on her arm, allowing the vomit to flow unreservedly from her mouth. Jace didn't look at the fluid for very long. When she was finished, he used his hands to splash water onto the rock, cleaning off the vomit. When there was nothing left to clean off, Jace rolled Clarissa back over and checked her mouth for any residue that may restrain her breathing. Upon seeing nothing, he resumed compressions.

A few minutes later, sweat was dripping down his forehead. _What if I can't save her?_ He shook his head, as if he could shake the thought away. He gave her two more breaths, both of which went in unrestrained. He found the centre of her chest and resumed his compressions, his muscles screaming for rest.

A cough ratcheted through the petite body. "Jace?" her voice was thin, breathy.

"Clarissa!" His voice came out urgent, unbelieving. He stopped his compressions, scrutinizing her body. Her eyes fluttered open and she tried to prop herself up on her elbows, but

"Of course it's me, Jace. Who else's voice would you expect to come out of my body? Isabelle's?" Jace almost leaped with joy. She was fine, he had saved her, and the king wasn't going to ask for his head.

"Oh, God, how do you feel?" he asked. _Damn it_, he thought, hating the tone of his voice. She had broken through his carefully crafted walls, and there he was, actually caring. The one thing he promised himself he would never do again. "Caring makes for weakness, and when you rule the kingdom, weakness is one thing you cannot afford, Jonathan Christopher," his father told him once, his voice strict and serious.

"My . . . my ribs feel strange. And, my head. Jace, tell me, did something happen? I remember being underwater and the rocks moving, and being pulled up. The rest is blank," she said, sounding panicked.

Jace rested one of his palms against her chest, feeling her heart pound. He closed his eyes in disbelief. He had brought her back from the dead. She hadn't had a heart beat, and now she did. "You were . . . you were hit by one of the falling rocks. I saw you get hit, and dove down to get you. You swallowed a lot of water and you stopped breathing for a few minutes."

She tried to prop herself up on her elbows, but Jace pushed her back down gently. "I wouldn't try that if I were you, resuscitating a person involves the breaking of ribs."

Her face contorted with what he deeply hoped was not anger. "You . . . you actually saved my life, then?" she asked, her eyes wide and young.

He nodded, slowly, allowing her to process everything. "A lesser girl would've fainted now," she told him, her voice fighting to stay light.

"But you're not a lesser girl, Clarissa, so you are going to stay conscious while I wrap your ribs and get you back to the castle, I presume?" Actually, _hoped_ was a better word for it.

She snorted; a very un-ladylike action. "Sorry. I'm working on the propriety bit. Father doesn't watch me much, leaves me to my own devices. It's only now that he's taken a real interest in me. And call me Clary, Isabelle gave me the nickname." She allowed him to help her sit up straighter while he tried the nickname out on his tongue. _Clary_. It reminded him of the herb, Clary Sage, which Ragnor Fell once told him could give men the Sight, allowing them to glimpse the Faerie World. Clary, petite and fiery haired reminded him of what he pictured a faerie to be like when he was younger.

"_Oh mon Dieu_," he heard her mutter as he propped her up against his knee. He used a strip of his dry shirt to bind around her waist to keep her ribs in place. Internal wounds were nasty things, and he wanted to make sure that the ride back wouldn't move any ribs out of place.

"Sorry about the discomfort," he apologized, surprising himself. It wasn't his fault that the rocks happened to land on her, and here he was, apologizing for a side effect of him saving her life. What was happening to him?

As he helped her back into her slip, leaving the heinous corset off, she murmured, so softly that he almost was not sure he had heard it, "I guess the stories of your kindness are more than just stories."

He helped to lace up the back of her dress. "I have only really helped women _out_ of their clothing." He bit his lip upon letting that slip out, realizing how incredibly uncomfortable that could be for her.

"Oh yeah, I have only helped boys out of their clothes too. In fact, you could say I am very well-versed in the fine art of undressing men," Clarissa—Clary said, assuming a sultry and regal air.

Jace stared at her blankly, taking in her limp curls, still ghostly-white face, and wide green eyes. She practically _oozed_ innocence. Upon seeing his face, she burst into laughter. "Ouch," she said, clutching her torso as tears sprung to her eyes. "The look upon your face was absolutely _priceless_. You mustn't have believed me. My only male friends are Simon, who is a servant, and Sebastian, who you have met. He is as proper as they come here in France."

Jace refused to let her get to him. She was clearly teasing him, making a mockery of him. "Let's get you back to castle before you further injure yourself."

* * *

><p>When Simon came to Isabelle's room this morning with a message from the Queen Jocelyn, Isabelle had been plotting how to get Camille as far away from Prince Jonathan as physically possible.<p>

"Queen Jocelyn _est_ requesting your presence at a luncheon today." Simon had said, French creeping its way into his message.

Isabelle was taken aback. She was only in France as a friend of Prince Jace's, a mere visitor, not a guest of honour. "Really? And who else is to attend this luncheon?"

"Her Majesty Queen Jocelyn, Prince Jonathan and Lady Camille. Her Majesty thought it would only be appropriate to introduce you to Lady Camille and Prince Jonathan officially, as you are a guest here." Simon looked at his shoes.

"Well, then, I cannot refuse an invite from the Queen herself, can I? Tell her I shall be there," Isabelle said, a plan formulating in her head.

"_Oui_, I shall, Lady Isabelle," he said, still looking at the ground as he left.

_Oh dear_, Isabelle thought_, I do believe that my off-centre corset has scarred the boy for life_. Isabelle marched over to her closet, rifling through the dresses she brought with her from England. "I want something classy and elegant, but not prudish. Something that is seductive, but still within the bounds of appropriate attire for one meeting with royalty," she mused.

Classy and elegant, yet not prudish, and seductive but Queen-meeting worthy came in the form of a red silk dress. The dress had been given to Isabelle by Queen Céline, Prince Jace's mother, for her sixteenth birthday. The dress had a neckline that dipped low in an elegant way that Isabelle was sure the Queen would think was classy, but that Jonathan would think was striking.

She pulled it on and laced it up herself; a task that Isabelle had learned to do at an early age when her maid started tipping her mother off that her daughter was playacting a boy and sneaking out of the castle. She wandered over to the mirror, admiring how creamy her skin looked against the red of the dress and how the colour almost matched her blood red ruby pendant. Grabbing a handful of pins off the vanity table and sticking them between her teeth, Isabelle began the task of pulling her hair up into an extravagant French twist. "When in France," she muttered to herself, securing the last pin in place. She twisted in the mirror, admiring the way her dress swirled and glimmered in the late morning light. _Parfait_, she decided. She slipped her feet into a pair of 'appropriate' shoes—which was what Alec called any shoes that _weren't_ her black boots. In this case, they were a pair of thin satin flats, much more feminine and therefore more appropriate than her boots.

Taking one last look at herself in the mirror, she decided that she looked presentable enough. She started to make her way down the hall to the marble staircase. She didn't need Simon to tell her where the dining hall was, having been there twice now. _More than Jace, and certainly more than Alec_, she thought. Speaking of her brother, he had been acting even more reclusive than normal. It worried Isabelle, she thought that England might be a nice break for her brother, a chance for him to unwind and stop worrying about politics and his 'studies'. Instead, being in a new environment made her brother revert to his old, isolated ways. She had a feeling he only tagged along to ensure the safety of his _parabatai_, Prince Jace.

As Isabelle meandered down the staircase, she thought about how lucky her brother was to have a _parabatai_. King Stephen decreed that the bonding rite was only for 'warriors', his soldiers. Not for girls like Isabelle, not that she knew anyone she would want to have as her _parabatai_.

Isabelle rounded the corner and stopped in front of a set of wooden double doors. She lifted a hand daintily and knocked. She could hear shuffling inside, probably a servant rising to answer the door. To her surprise, it was Camille who opened the door.

"Who invited the whore?" Camille asked, sounding dainty and proper with her French accent and sticky sweet voice.

"Camille,_parle poliment a notre invite_," the Queen reprimanded her.

Camille bowed her head. "Sorry, Queen Jocelyn, I meant to ask who invited the British bitch."

The Queen ignored Camille. "Please, Isabelle Lightwood, come in and sit down."

Isabelle smiled at Camille and walked over to the table. The queen was a beautiful woman with long fiery red hair and emerald green eyes framed by elegant dark lashes. Isabelle could easily tell who Clary got her looks from. "Thank you for the invitation, your Highness. _Merci beaucoup_."

The Queen smiled at Isabelle's attempt at French. "Camille and I were just discussing my son's tardiness. He's never on time for anything." The Queen looked over at Camille. "With men, that's what you get. It's not too late, darling; you can still back out and decide to fancy the ladies. At least you know they will respect times and curfews."

Isabelle stifled a laugh. Camille's face flushed red. "Oh, come now, Camille. Ladies have their uses to. Who needs children? You can always take in an orphan." The Queen continued. "Isabelle, please, sit down."

Isabelle sat, straightening out her dress. She liked the Queen already. "Is Jonathan late for everything?"

The Queen sighed. "Unless it is a knighting or a battle, I can assure you that Jonathan will be late. The same goes for his sister, though. Clarissa certainly did not inherit that trait from me. I am _always_ punctual."

Just then, the doors burst open and Jonathan sauntered in. Isabelle smiled and tried to catch his eye, but he looked everywhere but at her. "_Bonjour_, _Maman. Je suis d__é__sol__é__ pour mon retard._"

The Queen narrowed her eyes in what Isabelle suspected was anger, and then began to laugh. "Jonathan, _mon fils_, we were just having a conversation about your inevitable tardiness. Thank you for proving my point."

Jonathan sat down, his alabaster face not showing even the slightest hint of embarrassment. He leaned over and kissed Camille on the cheek. "_Bonjour_ _mon chérie, avez-vous bien dormir?_"

Isabelle bristled, but thankfully Jonathan and Camille's kiss was cut short by wait staff bringing in their lunch. "Thank you, Charles," the Queen said, waving away the man wearing an apron. "Now, Isabelle, tell me all about your Prince. Are his intentions good? Is he a good man for my daughter? Whatsoever you decide to say, I shan't tell a single soul; I swear upon mine own life."

Isabelle considered. "He is kind, beneath his hard exterior. He is loyal and brave. I have known him my whole life, and I have never met someone so undyingly loyal. His demeanor may be cocky, but in his heart is goodness. He is perfect for your daughter." Isabelle answered the Queen truthfully, wholly believing that Clarissa and Jace were a proper match. Her new friend, Clary was fiery and kind, a perfect pair for loyal and brave Jace.

The Queen sighed. She glanced over at her son and his fiancée, who had retreated further down the long dining table for more privacy. "Just as I suspected. Isabelle, dearest, do not tell my daughter or your prince, but we are all doomed."

"What? Whatever do you mean, your Majesty?" Isabelle asked, her curiosity piqued.

"I have heard word from your King, Stephen Herondale, that this union is important. The letter was for me to read alone, and its contents are not something I am supposed to disclose to anyone. But after reading it, I fear that Jace and my daughter _must_ be united. I trust Stephen for reasons I cannot tell you, Isabelle. Although I do not like is union, and I suspect my King likes it even less than I do, I believe it is necessary. I am telling you this because I believe you may be of assistance. I do not know what the repercussions of this union will be for France, but I believe that England will benefit. You, Isabelle, can find out more for me. Return to England, feel out the situation." The Queen suggested.

Isabelle was taken aback. "You mean spy on my own country for the sake of some confused French Queen?"

Jocelyn Morgenstern took Isabelle's hand in her own. "Yes. I will make it worth your while. I know what you want, Isabelle. You want my son. And if you do this for me, I will convince my husband that you are a better choice for Jonathan than Lady Camille."

Isabelle's heart skipped a beat. She _did_ want Jonathan. "Fine, Your Highness. We have a deal. When should I leave?"

**Tada! So, what do you think? What do you think Isabelle will find out while she's spying on the King? Do you think she'll actually tell the Queen of France what she finds out? Will Alec stop rejecting Magnus' help? I promise to try and update soon! Review for me!**

**xoxo, FireandIce95**

**ANOTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE (August 1, 2012): Just to clarify, here are to current plots:**

**1) Jace and Clary: the union**

**2) Alec and Magnus: Alec's non-curse curse**

**3) Isabelle, Jonathan, and Jocelyn: Isabelle going to spy on the King of England**

**Hope that clarifies stuff! Review?**


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